Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [119]
“At my house. I am calling her Florence. She has black stripes and a white front.”
“That was very noble of you, sir,” said Dolly.
Sethos’s face softened a trifle as he looked at the little boy. “You must be young Abdullah. I knew your great-grandfather well. He would have done the same.”
“Why don’t you all draw a picture of Florence?” I suggested, glaring at my inventive brother-in-law. Abdullah had hated cats.
The pack dispersed, except for Sennia. “Was that a true story?” she asked, fixing Sethos with a questioning stare.
“Not a word of it,” said Sethos promptly.
Sennia chortled. “You are funny. Who are you, really? Are you her father? I remember her; she was here a long time ago.”
She gestured at Maryam, who was sitting next to Evelyn. The girl was wearing the hat I had given her, and a new frock—the best Luxor had to offer, one must assume—of pink mousseline de soie. Papa had taken her shopping.
“Why don’t you go and introduce yourself?” I suggested.
General conversation was impossible with so large a group. It did not take Sethos long to maneuver himself into a tête-à-tête with me, while Maryam responded shyly to Evelyn’s kindly questions, and the children set to work on innumerable drawings of presumed felines. The tête-à-tête was immediately expanded by Emerson, who squeezed himself onto the settee next to me and fixed stern sapphirine orbs upon Sethos.
“You are awaiting my report, I suppose,” the latter said.
“I am awaiting elucidation of precisely who everyone in Luxor believes you to be,” I replied. “What did you tell Mrs. Fitzroyce?”
“I did not meet her.” Sethos leaned back and crossed one leg over the other. “Two husky lads intercepted me at the head of the gangplank. When I handed over my card I was informed that the Sitt was resting but that the other lady was expecting me. I wasn’t allowed onto the boat. Maryam appeared with her pathetic little bundles and we left.”
“Then you did not meet Justin?”
“I caught a glimpse of him, peering out from the doorway to the cabins. At least I assume it was he; he appeared as wary as a timid animal, so I pretended I hadn’t seen him.”
“What card did you leave?” I asked.
“That of Major Hamilton, of course. I always carry a selection.”
“Ha,” said Emerson. “The Vandergelts know your real identity.”
“I suppose there is no way of avoiding them,” Sethos said with a martyred sigh.
“I don’t see how you can be ready to leave Luxor for a few more days,” I said. “The Vandergelts are giving a soiree on Sunday, and Selim will expect you to turn up for his fantasia tomorrow.”
Sethos groaned theatrically. “Must I?”
“You sound like Emerson,” I said, wondering if he was doing it on purpose to annoy. “It would be advisable to give the impression that this is an ordinary visit from an old acquaintance. Your habit of popping in and out in various bizarre costumes, like the Demon King in a pantomime, makes things very difficult.”
“But much more interesting, Amelia dear.”
WE LINGERED OVER FATIMA’S EXCELLENT dinner, for everyone was on his or her best behavior, and Sethos exerted himself to be agreeable. I was about to suggest we withdraw to the parlor when a visitor was announced. I had been half-expecting him, for nothing is a secret in Luxor.
“Show Mr. Vandergelt into the parlor,” I said to Gargery. “And make sure there is plenty of whiskey.”
Cyrus was too much of a gentleman to forget apologies and greetings, but even these held an element of reproach.
“I figured the fella in the aeroplane was you,” he said, shaking Sethos’s hand. “I’d have called earlier, if anybody had bothered to tell me you were here. What are you gonna do next, ride in on an elephant?”
“Whiskey, Cyrus?” I inquired.
“I reckon. Thank you.” He tugged fretfully at his goatee and turned reproachful eyes on me. “How come I have to hear all the news secondhand? Don’t you folks trust me anymore?”
“Er, hmph,” said Emerson, busy with the decanters. “The fact is . . . er . . .”
“There hasn’t been time,” Nefret said. She perched on a hassock beside Cyrus and put a caressing hand